


The Best Laid Plans

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Flashbacks, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Past Non-Con, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4496850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor and his companions are out on a routine sweep of the Western Approach when they are taken by surprise by a group of Venatori. Desperate to protect his friends and his lover from the sadistic group, the Inquisitor must keep their attention. But how much he is willing to sacrifice to do so?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ambush

                **\------INQUISITOR------**

 

                 "Hey, Boss, how much longer are we going to keep this up?" Iron Bull's voice was bordering on gruff as the group breached yet another dune amongst the ruins, their sweat now so thoroughly entrenched in their clothing that no amount of washing could ever hope to lift it. Varlen Lavellan, too, was breathing heavily. He squinted at the steadily lowering sun, longing for it to sink below the horizon and offer some respite from the heat. There was only an hour or so of light left - they should be able to make it back to camp before then.

                "Less chatter, more walking." Dorian grumbled, even the aloof Tevinter beginning to fray around his perfectly manicured edges. The heat and desolation seemed to affect everyone, no matter where they were from. There had been no conversation save complaining for hours now.

                "This heat remind you of Seheron yet, Tiny?" Varric's tired voice was the next to sound off, and it was responded to with a huff from the Qunari.

                "Sure, only with more sweat and less sex."

                "Here or Seheron?" Varric chuckled dryly.

                "Well _that_ depends on which tent you’re in. Ain't that right, mage boy?"

                "Oh _Maker's breath_..." Dorian huffed as Bull broke out into loud laughter, the sound booming from his chest like cannon-fire. Varlen could only shake his head, his body now on the brink of exhaustion from the day's trek. He was too tired to feel indignant, and Dorian was doing a good enough job for both of them. He just tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, the sand grabbing at his boots almost hungrily with each step. It would be far too embarrassing if he collapsed and Bull had to carry him back to camp. Plus Dorian would be fretting the entire night, and spend majority of the next day denying it.

                "Hey, Snowy, could you hold on for just a second...?" Varric had called for a stop, and reluctantly the elf slowed, turning around to face the group just as he began to crest another dune.

                "Everything alright?" He asked, his long silver hair blowing wildly about his head in the desert wind as he shielded his eyes from the billowing sand. After a moment spent hunched, Varric nodded, straightening once again to his full dwarven height. There was tightness to his features that set Varlen on edge. Varric was clearly reaching his limit. He hoped they would not have to camp out; they were horribly unequipped for the freezing nights, and all of them crowded around Bull might get a little uncomfortable.

                "Yeah - I just needed to catch my breath for a minute. These old legs aren't what they used to be." He gave one of his signature lop-sided smiles to the elf, who returned the expression with warm weariness. They were all feeling the strain, but he could only imagine the travelling must be far more difficult for their dwarven companion. Suddenly, Varlen saw Varric's eyes go wide. Bull also lurched, instantly reaching behind his back, his hand closing on the hilt of his massive battle-axe. Alarmed, Varlen made to turn, but ceased the action as soon as he felt the cold bite of steel against his exposed neck.

                "Not another move or we'll slit the pretty elf's throat." The accent was foreign - Tevinter. "Drop your weapons and put your hands behind your head."

                Varlen snarled, but dared not move. Even when swallowing, he could feel the blade digging threateningly into the delicate skin of his throat. One wrong move and he'd be dead, and the Inquisition would have no means to seal rifts. _This was bad._

                "Well... _shit_." Varric truly had a way with words as he lowered Bianca to the ground. It must have killed him to leave her in the sand, where the grains would embed themselves in her lovingly maintained hinges and levers. Bull, too, removed his weapon and let it fall with a heavy thud, as though challenging one of the smaller humans to attempt to lift it. Next was Dorian's staff, light and benign on the hot ground, no longer the feared weapon of a talented mage. Varlen watched helplessly as they all raised their hands as bidden, fastening them behind their heads with interlocked fingers. However, his gaze lingered on Dorian, who had not taken his eyes from him. Despite his calm exterior, Varlen knew him well enough to read the fear lying deep in those grey-blue eyes. He was certain Dorian saw his own too as a few more Tevinter began to flow from over the dune's crest. They were not a large group by any means, but they had outplayed them. Silently cursing, Varlen cried out in surprise as a hand seized him by the hair, forcing his head back to expose his neck even more. A silent threat. _Damn it, he should have seen them first!_ If he'd only been paying more attention!

                "Bind them, and silence the mage." The man holding Varlen growled, soliciting a pained snarl from the elf as he tightened his grip on his hair for emphasis, repositioning the blade to press even harder against the delicate skin. As their assailants descended the dune, Varlen could make out the unmistakable robes of the Venatori. _Oh no... this was bad. Very bad._

                They made quick work of it; Varlen's companions were in no position to fight them with their Inquisitor held captive right before their eyes. Self-loathing flowed through Varlen's veins, far outweighing his fear. This was _his fault_! They could have dispatched them with no effort otherwise. Once they were all restrained, and a rough collar had been clasped around Dorian’s neck, Varlen felt the man behind him shift his grip, releasing his hair and reaching down. He felt fingers fumbling at his belt, and he tensed instinctively, wariness surging through his body. _What was he...?_

Then, a rapid drop in weight; first his right sheath, then the left. _Of course._ His daggers thudded uselessly to the ground, leaving the elf feeling even more helpless, if that was even possible. Suddenly, Varlen was seized by the wrist, and in his anger, a flare of green sparked traitorously from his palm. A throaty chuckle of satisfaction rumbled from his captor's chest.

                "Ah, so not just _any_ elf - the Inquisitor himself. I thought so. This is excellent news; our master will be most pleased."

                "You son of--" Varlen began, before the blade suddenly left his throat. He did not have a chance to react before it was brought back around, the hilt slamming into the side of his head. The last thing he heard was the outraged cries of his companions as the hot sand rushed up to meet him and his vision went black.


	2. Example

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varlen awakens in a cave, captured along with his allies. The Venatori choose to make an example of one of his companions to force his cooperation.

            **\------INQUISITOR------**

  

                 Groaning, Varlen winced as he managed to force open his heavy lids, his head still cloudy and semi-conscious as the world began to bleed into his vision. He did not move; not straight away. He tried to focus - on his head, which hurt as though a halla had kicked it. On his feet, which were bare and cold now, his boots somehow absent. On his hands, which he realised had also been shackled in front of him him, the cold metal tight and biting into his skin. On his heart, which thrummed wildly in his chest as he began to fully grasp the situation.

                _The Venatori.._. **_The others!_ **

                Suddenly, it all came back in a rush, and he lurched upwards, only to fall back down with a gasp as pain shot through his skull at the movement. He bit back a nauseous groan, swallowing hard as he battled to maintain composure.

                "Oh look, the Inquisitor is awake." The derisive tone was more than enough to tell Varlen that the speaker was the same man who had knocked him out in the first place. He turned his head to glare at him, his pale eyes bright and furious. He had the look of a noblemen, despite his cultish garb - his nose was narrow and proud, hooked like the beak of a hawk and framed by two equally piercing eyes, and his hands were adorned with a number of angular rings, their harsh edges catching the torchlight. The rest of his features were more subtle; thin lips and dark brows that angled downwards to give the illusion of constant distaste, and sharp cheekbones left unconcealed on his smooth, shaved face. Varlen gritted his teeth, his hands clenching almost subconsciously.

                "Where are the others? What have you done with them?" His voice was much stronger than he felt, and he hoped that what little authority it carried would be enough to at least get an answer. The response, however, did not come from the Venatori.

                "We're here, Boss. _Easy_." Iron Bull's voice was like a divine herald sent by the Mythal, and Varlen felt himself immediately fill with relief upon hearing it. He turned, his eyes falling upon a large metal holding cell at the far corner. They must be in a cave somewhere; one the Venatori had no doubt been using to keep Orlesian prisoners. Varlen's eyes swept them all quickly. They were all restrained similarly to him, but otherwise seemed unhurt. His eyes lingered longer on Dorian, that collar fastened around his neck sending a wave of anger through Varlen's body. The mage looked pale, a light sheen on his brow that belied the coldness of the cave. He knew how much Dorian feared the helplessness of being unable to access his magic. He wanted nothing more than to rip that collar off his perfect neck with his bare hands.

                "Are you all alright? Is anyone hurt?" He fought to maintain composure; to sound concerned, but not afraid. He wasn't sure he was winning.

                "Nah, nothing bad. For now." It was funny how they just allowed Bull to speak. It seemed even the Venatori feared their giant Qunari friend, prisoner or no, and were wisely electing not to anger him unless necessary.  _Until_ _necessary_. That traitorous voice tugged at the edges of Varlen's consciousness, filling it with doubt like a hardened Dalish elder, warning him of the dangers of the _shem_.

                " _For now_ being the key phrase." The Venatori drawled, his taut lips twisting into a knowing smirk as Varlen finally managed to struggle into a kneeling position. For a moment, queasiness washed over him, but he bit down on his tongue hard, using the pain to keep it at bay. A patronising tutting sounded from his left, and he leered as the Venatori circled him, eyeing him like a vulture before a carcass. "Our master will be _very_ pleased with this catch. He has been trying to get his hands on _you_ for quite some time now."

                "For what?" Varlen spat, the words dripping with venom. "He tried to remove the anchor once, and he _failed_. Then he tried to kill me, and he _failed_ again." He smiled, but it was half-way between a snarl as the Venatori raised his eyebrows at him. "This will be no different. He must be growing used to it."

                "Oh, but it _will_ be different _._ " The man chimed almost delightedly, waving his hand towards Varlen's bound companions. "You see, now we have leverage to ensure your cooperation. One wrong move from you, and..."

                The man smirked, as though a thought had just crossed his mind which had thoroughly amused him. Then, with a swiftness Varlen hardly anticipated, he clenched his fist hard, his entire arm trembling slightly with the force of the gesture. The elf frowned with a heavy swallow, reflexively bracing himself for a strike. But it never came. The next thing he knew, the Ventatori raised his hand, dark red magic pulsing from his fingertips, and suddenly Dorian was on the ground, screaming and shuddering as the sanguine force seemed to sink into his skin, moulding to his form, lighting it from beneath. For a moment, Varlen's heart thudded to a halt in his chest. _No!_ The next thing he knew, he was speaking, his voice fast and frantic as words tore from his lips, tripping over one another in their haste.

                "Stop - _enough_! I'll do as you say; don't hurt them! _STOP_!"

                The Venatori's attention flicked back to Varlen for a brief moment, alive with satisfaction. Then, he relaxed his hand and the redness faded, leaving Dorian gasping and limp against the dirt, his face pressed firmly to the cold stone out of sheer exhaustion from _whatever_ had been done to him. To Varlen's horror, a broken whimper managed to shake from the Tevinter's lips, and the sound struck him deep in his core. _Blood magic. Maker, no_. Not Dorian. _Not again_. Varlen took a shuddering breath, feeling his own fears intensifying. _He couldn't let this happen to him._

                " _Please_ , don't hurt them. I'll... I'll do whatever you say, just..." The words got stuck in Varlen's throat - he was unused to begging. Even when simply living with the Dalish before this whole nightmare started – even a few years before he left his clan, when he was caught and beaten to a pulp by a group of _shems_ – he _had not begged_. He had always been too angry at the world to even consider it. Now there he was, pleading with a _Venatori_ for clemency. To save a Tevinter mage. One he cared deeply for; more than he did for himself.

                The world had truly gone mad.

                " _Oh yes,_ I'm certain you will..." The man purred, his thin brows arching in an expression of smug satisfaction, and Varlen tried to calm his hasty heart. The Venatori leaned down, agonisingly slowly, and with gentle fingers twined a lock of Varlen's hair around one, as one would a prized possession. The elf made to jerk away, but a warning look from the Venatori was enough of a reminder of what would happen if he did. With a hasty glance towards Dorian, who had yet to rise, Varlen shakily swallowed, closing his eyes and trying to imagine he was somewhere else. _Anywhere else_. But, mercifully, the Venatori did nothing more; he simply chuckled and released him, the strand falling back in place like a soldier out of rank.

                "Do not move." He commanded simply, before turning on his heel with a precise flourish, making his way to an opening at the far left of the room. As the man exited the area down a narrow passage, no doubt to inform the others of the situation, Varlen opened his eyes to watch him, equal parts relieved and filled with dread. When the footsteps faded, the elf made to get to his feet, finally taking a breath he had not realised he had been holding. It was Varric's voice that arrested his movement towards the cage.

                " _Don't_ , Snowy. For now, just play along. Trust me when I say you _do not_ want to make them angry." His voice was tight but wise, and he had joined Iron Bull at the front of the cage. The Qunari was kneeling beside his fallen Tevinter comrade, who was still racked by the slightest of tremors upon the ground, his face twisted in a mixture of agony and silent fear as he curled in on himself. It was obvious that Dorian was not fully aware of the world around him yet - whatever the Venatori had done, it had caused Dorian to retreat from reality for a time. _Perhaps that was for the best,_ Varlen thought bitterly. _Wherever this was going, it probably wasn't going to get any better._ He'd rather Dorian didn't see, as selfish as it was.

                "Dorian..." Varlen whispered, his throat aching as he watched Bull reach forward to lift him up out of the dirt as best as he could with manacled hands. The others were merely bound with rope, but it seemed Varlen and Bull had been given iron cuffs. _What a privilege._

                "He's alright, Boss. Pretty shaken up, but he'll survive." Bull's voice lacked its usual deep reassurance, but he cradled Dorian's form close - _protectively_. If the Venatori wanted to target the mage again, they would have a hard time of it. "Just worry about yourself. They want to get at him, they'll have to get past _me_."

                A wave of sickening apprehension mixed with Varlen's overall panic. _They'll just kill you, Bull._ But when the elf spoke, his words were simple and genuine, grateful for the small amount of reassurance he provided despite everything. It would do no good to state his fears, nor would Iron Bull care.

                "Thank you." Varlen knew Bull was not the kind of person to simply sit back while his friends were harmed; not if he could help it. But Varlen was the same, and if he could, he would make sure his Qunari companion did not have to suffer either. That _none_ _of them_ would. He would get them out of this. He _had_ to.  He tested the manacles that bound him tentatively; they held fast, cold and burning at the same time. Varlen wondered if it was all in his head.

                Damn it! There had to be _something_...


	3. A Lock of Hope

              **\------IRON BULL------**

                "Huh, what's this...?” It was Varric speaking; he had walked over to the back of the cage, and was eyeing the large lock that secured the cage door. "Hmm… It’s a tricky one - old and noisy, I'll have to be careful... but I _may_ be able to get it open."

                "Then by all means, _do._ I'd like to bust out of here sooner rather than later." Bull growled, his gaze flicking constantly between the passage and the Inquisitor, who was still kneeling defeatedly on the ragged ground. He was hunched forward slightly, and swaying with the faintest of movements as though struggling to remain upright. That Venatori _bastard_ had been gone for a while now; Iron Bull could only begin to imagine what they were plotting deeper in the winding cave. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good for the pale-haired elf. He felt his blood surge, but fought back the rage as it swelled within his chest. He saw how that _Vint_ had been eyeing him - _touching_ him. Like a prized slave, lined up at the market, ready to be sold for pleasure. Bull was strangely glad that Dorian had not possessed enough control over his faculties to witness it. The mage might enjoy acting aloof and flippant, but it didn’t take a Ben-Hassrath to see how worried he was for Varlen – _his_ kadan.

                Dorian was sitting alone now; he hadn't said a word since that Vint had used his demon magic on him. However, every now and then, he shuddered. It was not the unremitting shaking he had been plagued by earlier, so Bull could only assume he was slowly recovering his senses, but it was taking time – time they did not necessarily have. The mage was going to have to pull himself together, and _soon_. Bull doubted those Venatori were going to just let them stroll out if Varric managed to get that lock open.

                "Hmm, the mechanism is pretty rusted..." The dwarf mumbled, his fingers working clumsily thanks to his bindings. He had a pick - Bull wasn't sure where he got it from, and was equally uncertain if he _wanted_ to know - but it was slow going.

                "Yeah, just don't break it off in the lock." Bull instructed, and Varric grunted.

                " _Right_ , Tiny - thanks for that. Good thing you're here to guide me through my first time picking a lock, or I'd be at a loss."

                "Hey, no need to get smart about it." Bull smirked, always giving off an air of calm despite their dire situation. "Just imagine how embarrassing it would be, writing about how you screwed up our great escape."

                "Oh sure, I’d definitely write _that_." The dwarf retorted sharply, his brow still taut with concentration, but determined to deliver his response. "No - you see, I'd spin it so that the giant lumbering Qunari almost got everyone killed with his _big mouth_ , and it was left to his dashing rogue companion to charm their way out of an early grave."

                " _Dashing rogue_ , huh? You mean the Inquisitor, then?"

                Varric shot him a withering glance, but there was no real anger in it. Perhaps even a mild respect for the sharp comment. "...  _Low blow_."

                Bull chuckled quietly, feeling the tension clawing at his body but doing his best to repress it for the sake of the others. He was trained for this. He would never show fear, but he could read it on his less stoic companions like an open book. _Especially_ the Inquisitor. Varlen did his best to put on a brave face, but Bull saw the way his eyes had widened and his body locked up at the Venatori's touch. Like a deer trapped by a lion. He turned his attention towards the kneeling elf.

                "Hey, Boss, you okay out there?"

                Varlen's body jolted as he called out, and those ice-blue eyes met his briefly, a mixture of pain and dread entrenched in their depths. He nodded shortly, his skin ashen and almost as pale as the delicate markings that tattooed his face. The way his silvery hair caught the torchlight was angelic; if Bull had seen him now, with no other knowledge, he would have easily accepted him as the so-called _Herald of Andraste._ He certainly looked the part - all fair and glowing. Oh yes, he could see why Dorian liked him so much.

                Unfortunately it was also why that Vint did too.

                "I'm fine, Bull." The Inquisitor's response was short, and a touch woozy, but his gaze darted sharply over to Varric. He was anxious, but trying to hide it – rather poorly, if Bull was honest. But Varlen clearly didn’t want them to worry, so Bull chose not to address it. "How's that lock coming?"

                "Hey now, don't rush me - this is delicate work. It’s like making love to a beautiful woman." The dwarf grunted as he tried to get a better angle on it, the bars making the situation awkward as he tried to work around them with bound wrists. "This pick isn't exactly one of my best either; I don't know how long I've had it hidden there for."

                "What's that supposed to mean?" Varlen whispered with a quick frown, and Varric chuckled conspiratorially.

                "Let's just say it's bent in places picks _aren't_ _meant to be bent_."

                " _Charming_." Dorian had finally found his voice, and Bull noticed an invisible weight seem to lift from the Inquisitor’s shoulders as the man's rolling accent reached his ears. Dorian noticed too, and raised a hand sheepishly in the elf’s direction; a gesture of errant dismissal, but somehow filled with so much more.  _Be calm. Are you alright? It will be okay._ The mage's words, on the other hand, remained aloof as ever, lilting with his usual flippant cadence. 

                "I am fine. Whatever magic  _that_ was... it has worn off, although I cannot say the same for the layer of dust coating my mouth. But _do try_ not to worry yourself on my part; they will only use it against you." His voice became deadly serious as he spoke the last comment, and it was at that point Bull _knew_ the mage was well aware of his countrymen's _less than noble_ intentions. Perhaps Dorian had not been as out-of-it as Bull had thought...

                "Dorian..." The elf began weakly - a moment of exhausted relief - before suddenly going rigid, his head turning sharply to the left. After a few second's pause, he fired his words in a hot whisper, fast and desperate. "... they're coming back - _Varric_!"

                " _Right, right_ …" The dwarf immediately abandoned the lock, tucking the pick up his sleeve, the picture of innocence. "Damn, I was just starting to get a feel for it too... Try to keep them busy Snowy; I’ll get this thing open."

                Bull stiffened as the sound of footsteps also reached his ears, and steeled himself for the Venatori's return. His gaze once again met Lavellan's, and the best he could do was give him a reassuring nod.

                Even to Bull, the sentiment felt futile.


	4. Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the warnings in the tags are going to start applying for the next few chapters- just warning you all in advance! It's not horribly graphic, but if non-consensual acts make you squeamish, please stop here.

            **\------INQUISITOR------**

                "You're all _cowards_ , running straight to Corypheus! He’s nothing more than a blighted madman claiming to be a god! Pathetic, but I’m not surprised – lack of forethought is so typical of you _shems_." Varlen spat the words at the thin-lipped Venatori who so enjoyed taunting him, trying to keep the man's attention as Bull carefully shifted to block Varric's tinkering from the Vint's line of sight. His name was Livus, or so he had heard the others call him, and at the sound of the word ‘ _shem’_ , his expression twisted into a feral snarl. With one swift move, he hefted his quarterstaff and struck it over Varlen's head, slamming the elf to the ground with a pained cry as his vision momentarily exploded. He gasped, open-mouthed against the dirt, lungs heaving as he coughed hard, the throbbing ache crippling. A dry, almost disembodied chuckle eventually reached his ears, wading through the air as though it were mud.

                "You've got quite the mouth on you, for a _knife-ear_. No wonder there are no Dalish in Tevinter - they would have been purged quickly for such insolence." He smirked and kneeled beside the fallen elf, who tried feebly to scramble away. Before he could gain any kind of distance, Livus snagged a fistful of Varlen’s long pale hair and yanked it back, soliciting an anguished hiss from between the Inquisitor’s clenched teeth as his head was forced up and back.

                "We have ways of teaching _your kind_ how to address their betters."

                For a moment, Varlen was silent, his mind struggling to tick over what was being said to him. The ringing in his head was so distracting, and his _vision_... he blinked rapidly, hoping in vain to clear it. His gaze flicked to the side and met that of Livus, who held him fast, seeming to enjoy his powerful position over the Inquisitor.

                The next thing Varlen knew, he was being hauled to his feet, only to be slammed hard against the wall of the cave, Livus' body pinning his back against the cold stone. Furiously, he tried to push the man away, but the Venatori simply snagged him by his shackled wrists and pulled them roughly above his head, holding him in place with little effort. Despite his best attempts, Varlen was injured and weary, his body more accustomed to speed and precision than tests of strength. He pulled and twisted furiously, but to no avail. Now he was almost face to face with the man, looking up at the dark-skinned Tevinter with guarded eyes, their closeness sending a shiver racing down his spine. Not in a good way, like when he was with Dorian.

                No... No, this was _bad_.

                Livus' deep eyes met his own, then abandoned them, tracing slowly down his torso. A dark hunger burned within them, born from lust for power rather than actual attraction. _Then again_ , Varlen thought sickeningly as Livus’ free hand slowly glided down to his hip, _it was hard to tell with humans._ He jerked against the taller man's grip, pulling away from the wall, but was forced back almost immediately - _effortlessly_. It was terrifying how weak the elf had become so quickly. Varlen's gaze was murderous, but it was met with nothing but wry amusement from his captor.

                "Hmm, I bet you've been around a few nobles' beds by now, _Inquisitor_." The sound reverberated from within his chest like the content rumble of a lion. "Making all those... _connections_ with the only asset you possess." That roaming hand cupped his groin, causing Varlen to flinch backwards, pushing hard against the rough stone as his whole body tensed.

                A snarl found its way to his lips, but rather than try to wrack his brain for a retort, he simply spat straight in his assailant's face, uncaring of how uncouth it might make him appear. It didn't matter. Not here. He just wanted that bastard to _get off him_.

                Livus flinched slightly, raising his free hand to swipe the saliva off his cheek. Then came the backhand, hard and fast. Varlen's head smashed against the rock wall with enough force to make even Bull flinch, and the elf felt his legs give way with dizzying swiftness. The darkness was creeping in again, but this time he was not permitted to give in to it. He was dragged from the wall and tossed to the ground in an unceremonious heap, left to claw at the dirt as he tried desperately to crawl away and cling to consciousness. _He had to keep their attention. Couldn't let them see what Varric was doing... Had to keep them busy..._

                He _knew_ he had to; their freedom depended on it. But for the first time in a long time, as Livus and the two other Venatori he had entered with closed around his shaking, breathless form…

 

                … Varlen was _terrified_.


	5. Impossible Patience

\------  **IRON BULL ------**

                Blood pumped wildly through Bull's veins as he could only watch the treatment of their Inquisitor in silent, burning fury. His boss. His _friend_. He could see the elven man trying to be strong - to be brave. To be silent, but still do just enough to keep the Venatori focused on him. Every cry that tore unbidden from his lips was accompanied by a grimace of self-loathing, as though he had somehow betrayed himself. But Bull knew he could not help it as their boots connected sharply with his ribs, or as they hauled him up off the ground only to send him crashing back to it with a roar of laughter. Like sadistic children around a stray. They were torturing the poor bastard; Bull was acquainted well enough with the practice to know it when he saw it. Their great Inquisitor, reduced to the prisoner of a few slack-jawed Venatori desperate for dominance. They were _revelling_ in the power the situation brought, and fully intended to make the most of it. That thought alone made Bull want to break the bars of that _damn_ _cage_ with his _teeth_. The Vints’ laughter once again swelled as a scream tore itself unbidden from Varlen's throat; the result of a particularly well-placed kick to his already abused ribs. Bull turned sharply back to Varric during the distracted ruckus, his gaze white-hot and _burning_.

                " _Come on_ , dwarf..." His impatience was practically tangible, but it was motivated by more than just one thing. Dorian, who was beside him now, had practically collapsed into a wilted kneel, his eyes staring but not really _seeing_ as Varlen was thrown around like a practice dummy amongst those Venatori bastards. He could feel the man's helplessness like an oppressive fog that clung to the air, heavy and humid with despair. The collar that had been fastened around Dorian's neck when they were first captured seemed to weigh him down as though made of stone, nullifying his magic and sapping his strength. He was completely helpless and _he knew it_. He could do nothing but watch in abject horror, silent and silenced as his partner was tortured right before him. Bull could only imagine Dorian's desperation - his longing to tear free from that collar and burn each of those Venatori to ash, then _blow up the ash_ , for good measure. For a moment, Bull let his gaze hover over Dorian - committing the agonised sight to memory just as he had his boss's brutal treatment. He would remember every subtle movement; every pained flinch. Every agonised cry, forced from reluctant lips. He intended to return it all _one hundred times over_ to those Tevinter assho--

                "--No! _No_! Get off me!!!"

                The giant Qunari's heart broke rhythm in his chest, and he immediately returned his attention to Varlen, whose voice had finally cracked with a shrill fear that cut Bull to the bone. The beatings, he could take. The insults, the goading, the roughing up - _fine_. But Iron Bull lurched forward with Dorian, whose hands now gripped the bars with white knuckles, at the scene unfolding all too quickly before them. What they had all suspected was coming, but had been hoping desperately to avoid.

                The Vints had forced Varlen to the ground now, one of the unnamed Venatori pinning his bound hands above his head while the other took a short blade to the elf's tunic. The third - _Livus_ (Iron Bull would certainly remember _that_ name) - sneered down at the battered Inquisitor, who twisted frantically, his pale eyes now wide with wild, unmarried panic. The blade tore through the fabric, slashing it open. Ripping. Nicking flesh. Severing cords and buttons - sending them scattering uselessly along the jagged ground. Varlen's voice had seized in this throat - choked and trapped, as though an invisible hand had clasped tightly around his neck. Something in him had clearly shattered, and now the Inquisitor was blindly thrashing against his assailants, his injuries forgotten or ignored due to the sheer force of his terror. His bare feet scrabbled helplessly against the ground, the stone and dirt providing nothing but injury without purchase. Bull felt a low growl building in his chest, but he dampened it with immediate and bitter haste. It would not help. If they caught Varric now, they’d only do _worse_ _things_ to Varlen out of spite. They would send someone to guard the prisoners, and they'd have no hope of ever intervening. They had to be patient… but Bull would be lying if he said it wasn’t bordering on impossible.

                The Dalish’s torso was exposed now, the taught muscle stuttering with his panicked breaths as he twisted again, trying desperately to break the hold of the Vint pinning his wrists. Then, Livus suddenly knelt down, his hand seizing Varlen by the jaw and forcing his head to the front. The elf unwillingly met his gaze, his silver hair splayed haphazardly over his typically striking features, now marred with deep bruises and angry red cuts. Frantic eyes. Cold sweat. Quaking hands. Breaths coming a million a minute. For one heart-stopping moment, Bull feared their Inquisitor might pass out from panic alone. He’d _never_ seen a chest rise and fall that fast.

                "Let's see how proud you are once we're through with you, _Inquisitor_." Livus smirked, and Iron Bull felt a sick twist in his stomach, accompanied by a primal urge to... _to_... He ground his teeth and gripped the bars of the cage, feeling the metal groan under the force of his fury. It resisted, and held strong. Bull cursed it silently in every way he knew.

               "What will happen once all your friends over there see just how weak you truly are? How could they follow you then - their _great saviour_. Their _blessed_ _hero_. What garbage. They’ll realise how foolish they were to believe an _elf_ could _ever_ be such things." Livus' mouth twisted into a sickening smile of self-satisfaction as he grabbed Varlen's chin, his thumb tracing possessively over the elf's trembling lower lip. A strained whimper clawed from the Inquisitor's chest, useless and hollow in the cold air, and Livus only grinned wolfishly at the sound.

                "Yes, your kind are only useful for one thing. Isn't that right? Now you are going to be a good little animal and do as you're told, or else believe me, I will go out of my way to make this _unbearable_."

                Dorian sunk down against the bars in silent anguish, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the cold metal. He did not cry out - he couldn't risk drawing their gaze. Bull could hear the dwarf working behind him, his actions now fast and desperate - he had been listening the whole time, gauging the ever-escalating situation. Now, it had almost reached its peak - the worst those bastards were capable of doing short of killing the Inquisitor. Bull's blood pounded in his ears; seared through to his core, making him tremble, the pureness of his fury almost frightening him. His muscles ached, his hands flexed and clenched in hateful rage that he was normally so careful to mask. Beside him, he felt Dorian's tenuous composure begin to slip as the last of Varlen's tunic was cast aside, and the knife began to hook under his belt...


	6. Breaking Point

**\----- INQUISITOR -----**              

                 _No! No - Mythal! Maker! Andraste - anyone! Not this! Please... please not this!_

Varlen could only scream in his head as the last remnants of his shirt were ripped from his body, left to lie broken in the dirt - a frightening reflection of their battered owner. He struggled violently and with terrified gasps, trying in vain to lower his arms and defend himself. The attempt was futile; he was still rendered immobile by one of the Venatori, who was using his body-weight to hold his manacled wrists fast to the earth. Varlen wanted to scream; to kick and fight and beg and _please he'd do anything - just make them stop_! But they would not listen – even as his vision blurred from his own distress, he _knew_ that. So he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him - the leader of the Inquisition - reduced to a sobbing beggar. No. _He couldn't_. They were all watching. Bull... Varric... _Dorian_... He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the traitorous sting of tears hiding just below the lids, threatening to spill.

                He wanted his Keeper - last time, she knew what to say; held him together even as he tried his hardest to fall apart in her embrace. He wanted his clan. His friends. His _sister_. Older - _protective_. She would have killed them all; bled the sky itself to keep him safe - the fire to his ice. He _missed_ her. He wished he'd never gone to the Temple - that this was all a horrible nightmare. Before, he'd wanted to get away - far away. _More than anything_. Now, he wanted nothing more than to go home.

                But he couldn't. They were gone. _All gone_ \- butchered by bandits, their broken bodies left to soak crimson into the earth. The fire had been snuffed out; all that was left was a smoky haze of broken promises and regret. Perhaps that was the legacy of his clan - the fate of all Lavellan.

                No. _No_ , he would not beg to be spared. It would change nothing for the better. He was the last - he would not fade.

                Varlen grimaced as Livus' hand found his exposed chest, raking down it with rough fingernails to earn a hiss of pain, but still he refused to plead for mercy. No. Men like _them_... He'd dealt with _their_ kind before. If it hadn't been him, they would have just picked one of his companions for their own sick amusement, and he doubted Varric or Bull would have been the highest on their list. As long as he lived, he would never allow them to touch Dorian – or truly, _any_ of his friends. He'd sacrifice his own body one-hundred times over before letting them lay even _a finger_ on them.

                "Hurry up." Livus was getting impatient, tired of simply leaving long red welts on the Inquisitor's torso, but Varlen did not dress in simple cloth. The thick leather of his belt was proving more resistant than they had anticipated. The blade sawed at it, but Varlen tried his hardest to make the task as difficult as possible, writhing just enough to hinder the knife's purchase without accidentally getting himself stabbed in the process.

                _Please... please Varric, hurry..._

                "Now now, the less you fight, the sooner this will all be over." Livus' words were sickening to Varlen, delivered with facetious placation, like a parent to a disobedient child. The elf growled weakly and twisted his head to the side as the older man stooped, his mouth so close to his ear that he could feel the moisture hot on his breath. "I will make you _scream_ , knife-ear. You hear me? I've broken better for less."

 

_... **Knife-Ear whore. Cover his mouth - don't let him get away ...**_

_No. Not now. Don't think about it. Don't remember!_ Suddenly, the rough hand returned to his jaw and jerked Varlen's head to the front. The next thing he knew, the Venatori's lips were being forced roughly against his own, his tongue thrusting into his startled mouth without warning, filling it with the taste of smoke and salt and _make it stop!_ His voice stifled by the intrusion, Varlen attempted to protest in muffled distress, this time trying to pull himself _up_ by his pinned arms; to draw himself away from Livus. However, the Venatori simply followed what little movement he could make, and the elf’s anguished moans were lost in the other man's vicious, overbearing mouth. At first, Varlen tried to force the man's tongue out with his own, but finding that act ineffective, he did the next best thing.

                He bit down.

 

 **_... Idiot_ ** _- **stop letting him move! And you - why are you just standing there? Hold his legs open...**_

 

                _Stop!_ Livus cried out with a hiss of pain, pulling away, his hand flying to his mouth. It had not been a good bite - Varlen had failed to draw blood - but the act itself had been enough to get the other man off him. The Inquisitor coughed once he was released from the violating kiss, a disgusted grimace etched upon his face as he once again twisted to the side, hoping to avoid further intrusion. He kept hearing them in his head - those _voices_. _Why did he keep hearing them!?_ It was over - it was in the past. He had recovered - moved on. Why _?_ Why were they haunting him again? _Why now?_

                Suddenly, Varlen's stomach dropped as he felt his belt fall slack, severed and useless as it slumped from his trembling hips. He had been too still - too shocked by the man's sudden advance. He'd allowed them too much time to work unhindered...

                " _Fasta vass_! You little _bastard_!" This time, Livus slammed his hand _over_ Varlen's mouth, silencing the wide-eyed elf with a movement so sudden and furious that he felt it bruise on impact. He renewed his struggles, a new fear leeching into his gaze at the Venatori's wild ferocity. The man's other hand wasted no time - it snagged his breeches and roughly began tugging them down, the belt no longer hindering his progress. But the fitted fabric still proved difficult to remove one-handed from his struggling target, who continued to twist and kick, his muffled cries now escalating behind the gloved hand in a shrill, panicked staccato.

                "Damn it -- _you!_ Get over here and _hold his legs._ "

 

**_... Hey, I said hold him down! What are you, some kind of elf-lover? Get over here! That's it..._ **

****

                The Venatori - the one who had been cutting - did as Livus instructed, tossing the knife aside and seizing one of Varlen's legs, immobilising it to make removing his breeches a simpler task. Now the elf was in pure-panic, unable to plead even if he wanted to because of the rough hand silencing his mouth. Livus once again hooked his fingers over the fabric, snagging both his breeches and smalls, and he leaned in close, his breath laced with poisonous, _vitriolic_ loathing.

                "You little bastard. Mark my words: when I hand you over to Corypheus, you will be _begging_ him to kill you _._ "

                That spurred Varlen to thrash again, as while earlier the man's threats certainly carried weight, _now_ they were promises. A sharp sound resonated throughout the cavern, but Varlen was in no mind to pay it any heed. At the feel of his smalls being tugged down below his pelvic bone, and the cold air clawing at his skin, he squeezed his eyes shut, his heartbeat pounding in his head. The tears that had threatened to spill from earlier finally broke free as he twisted as far as he could, his legs held open by rough, pitiless hands. _No! Not again - please!_

****

**_.. How pathetic; the knife-ear is crying. Good. Uncover his mouth - I want to hear..._ **


	7. The Fury of the Storm

 

 **\-----IRON BULL-----**      

         

                The heavy ringing of metal clattering to the ground was like the blast of a war-horn to The Iron Bull, loud and commanding. His powerful body responded reflexively to the sound – an action rehearsed a thousand times, but never with such conviction. Such _fury_. Bull surged to life, not with a burst, but with an _explosion_ , hurtling towards the now open door with raw power that seemed barely possible for a being of mortal origin. Varric was forced to dive out of the way just before the Qunari surged past, his massive hands bound but not slowing him down as he violently slammed the cage door open with his horns. The metal crashed hard against the cave wall, the sheer force embedding it there with a shuddering crack. Bull roared into the opening, his eyes red with rage - set on one thing.

                The Venatori did not stand a chance - they were not ready for the raw fury of the Tal-Vashoth. Bull was the tempest made flesh, each heavy step thunder, each swift move lightning. The Venatori pinning Varlen's wrists met his end so quickly that the shock did not have time to vacate his eyes before they went milky and dull. One of Bull's massive horns caught him straight through the throat, puncturing fast. _In and out_. That roar - _thunder._ The Vint crumpled to the ground in a pool of frothing red, peeling aside with the weak shudder of death.

                The second, the one who had shredded the Inquisitor's clothes from his body, made the mistake of launching to his feet in terror. Bull was upon him instantly, like a bear starved for weeks on the Frostbacks. Even with his wrists manacled, he got hold of the man by the throat, lifting him effortlessly with powerful hands, holding him aloft like a perverted sacrifice. The Vint _screamed_ ; harsh, _piercing_. Bull's heart thrummed in his chest, dancing in time, racing against the sound. With a snarl that twisted his face like a demon, he tightened his grip. The Venatori's eyes bulged wildly in their sockets. With a bestial surge, he hurled the struggling man onto one of the many jagged stones protruding from the cave floor. It was over with an instant, the sickening _crack_ of his spine meeting the hard rock both terrible and _perfect._  He too fell limp to the dirt, his eyes wide and sightless; a puppet of Corypheus whose strings had been severed. Bull turned, his shoulders heaving in time with his snarling breaths.

                The last one.

 _Livus_.

                Bull had sworn he would remember that name, and even at the peak of his rage, he _did_. It was burned into his mind – visible in that brief moment of darkness when he blinked. The leader of the trio had already released Varlen and risen to his full height. Stepping back in quaking horror, he slid into a defensive stance, but his staff was out of reach, still lying on the ground where he had discarded after striking the Inquisitor. Varlen, now free from their grasp, immediately bolted into a sitting position, scrabbling away from the Venatori, his feet skidding frantically over the loose rocks as though his life depended on it. His pale irises were startling against the pained redness of his eyes. _A different red to Bull's_. Reluctant tears stained the elf's cheeks - unbidden, unnoticed, and unwanted.

                 Another surge of primal rage course through the Qunari as he remembered that sob. _Just_ _one_. It had torn itself unwillingly from the Inquisitor's throat a split second after the cage had been unlocked. No doubt Varlen thought it had been lost in the tumult that followed – but Bull had heard it, clear as day. The furious Qunari’s nostrils flared dangerously at the memory of the sound, everything out of focus except for _one thing_.

                That bastard.

                _Livus_.

                The Iron Bull charged - found his prey.

                The Tevinter barely had time to cry out before Bull swept him off his feet, slamming him hard against the cave wall in one swift move that covered meters in half a beat. The heat and sweat and _fury_ coursing through his veins was thick in the air, choking to inhale. Livus' feet scrabbled helplessly against the wall, his entire form effortlessly held aloft; pinned. Iron Bull's hands shook with the raw force of his anger as it surged through his being – _he would end him._

                "N-now, h-hold a moment! Let's t-talk about this, shall we? I'm s-sure we can come to a-an arrangement - I can offer you information! Yes - _yes_! Secrets - about Corypheus!" The man stammered, and Bull hesitated; not out of agreement, but out of sheer disbelief. That... that _Vint_ was... _bargaining with him_? After what he had just done - after what he had attempted to do? Was he out of his mind? _Mad_?

                **_Mad_** _._

                Bull's brief hesitation was his undoing. A victorious glint flashed in Livus' dark eyes. The next thing Bull knew, he was struck by a bolt of blinding light, burning and sharp like an explosion of heated glass. He roared in pain, staggering back and dropping the Venatori as he clawed at his face, trying to scrape off the magic as though it was tangible. Livus wasted no time; he took off, scooping up his staff, whirling back around as his magic pulsed intimidatingly around him - likely more a show of power than an actual attack, but effective nonetheless. Teeth gritted, Iron Bull blinked rapidly, his vision reduced to a collection of white bursts that were agonising to look at. They were clearing with each blink, but so, _so_ slowly.

 _Too slowly_.

                Livus wasted no time on long speeches or grandstanding. But he did laugh - wildly and with an almost hysterical edge to it. He gazed at the fallen Venatori, as though taking some gruesome pleasure in having outlived them all. The few words he said were chilling – Bull could _hear_ him, but damn it _\- his vision_! The echoing of the cave made him doubt himself too much to act on sound alone.

                “Corypheus wills your death, _Inquisitor_! I alone may not be able to deliver you to him, but I _can_ send you to your grave in his place!”

                **“BOSS!”** Bull roared, feeling all too familiar dread seize his being, clawing its way up his throat from the inside. He forced it down, his mind unraveling to the sound of his own furiously beating heart. He’d just have to charge – do _something_. He had no choice.

 

\----- **INQUISITOR** \-----

 

                “… I alone may not be able to deliver you, but I _can_ send you to your grave in his place!”

                Varlen’s eyes went wide. His body was alight with agony, still shaking from dragging his broken form over to one of the larger rocks protruding from the ground. He had pressed his back to it in his desperation for distance; thoughtlessly. _Stupidly_. The sound of Livus' voice - his _laughter_. It turned Varlen’s blood to ice in his veins. He was helpless; _trapped._ Bound and injured, unable to achieve more than a pitiful crawl. _Too slow to get away_. If the Venatori attacked, it was over – there was no way he could dodge it.

 _At this stage_ , Varlen thought with weak resignation, each breath now short and stabbing, _it wouldn’t take much to finish me off._ It was only a matter of time now. Bull was blinded, thrashing and furious. He had shouted something, but the words failed to breach Varlen’s clouded head, muffled and incoherent as though spoken underwater. He was probably telling him to move; to run. _Mythal,_ he wantedto. But he _couldn’t._ He clutched at his ribs, painfully resigned and barely clinging to consciousness. _It was over._

_I have failed. Failed them all. I’m sorry. I’m so… so sorry…_

                **“Amatus!”**

                _That word_. It penetrated the fogginess of the Inquisitor's mind like a bolt, and before he knew what was happening, Livus’ form vanished from view, blocked by a sudden wall of shadow that cut off Varlen's line of sight.

 _Warmth_ – bound wrists swiftly lowered over his head. Strong arms encircling him, pulling him close with a motion so desperate it hurt. Varlen gasped at the roughness, and the familiar scent of earthy wine and parchment filled his lungs, sending his mind reeling as his head was promptly forced down - shielded against a heaving chest.

                … _W_ - _what_ …?

                … _D… Dorian_ …?

                … _Dorian!_

**_MOVE!_ **

                All Varlen could do was panic, pushing against him weakly but with a desperation he did not think himself capable of – trying in vain to shove the man away – aside – _anywhere but there!_

**_MOVE!_ **

                His mind was screaming, but he couldn’t find his voice – didn’t have the time! _There was no time!!_

_No! Fenedhis _-_ get out of the way! MOVE! Dorian!! What are you doing!?!_

**_MOVE!!!_ **


	8. Breathe

**\----- IRON** **BULL-----**

                Bull saw the potent magic building in Livus' hand, wild and furious. _Designed_ to kill in one deadly rush. Bull honed in on it; used its glow as a beacon to guide him to his mark. It was brighter than the remaining bursts of white in his vision; he could focus on it - aim for it with his massive bulk. But the Venatori had moved back - almost to the far wall of the cave. He had been smart, and used the time that Bull was incapacitated to reposition himself. The Vint's eyes were wide, the whites bright and shot with zealous lunacy as he angled his staff towards Varlen--

                -- Bull almost stumbled mid-charge when he saw Dorian suddenly appear out of the corner of his vision, throwing himself towards Varlen with a desperate cry, his face contorted into a rare image of fear. The mage skidded painfully on his knees, sliding over the loose stones in front of the injured elf, who had collapsed against a rocky outcrop, unable to move further. Bull wasn't sure what the man was planning to do in his collared state, but his gut twisted at the most likely course of action. The _only_ course of action. Dorian threw his arms around Varlen; pulled him close. Tucked his head down. Shielded him.

                No. This was not going to happen. Not if Bull could help it.

                Bull was running, his legs pumping furiously, desperate to cross the distance, his head lowered like a charging beast. _Could he make it?_ He didn't know, but he was damn sure he was going to try. Livus' magic pulsed - he drew his staff back, the cracking of magic now filling the air with terrifying power...

                                **FFFFFF _FWWWWHHMMP!_**

Iron Bull felt something - baulked as it whizzed past him, mere inches from his body as he raced to breach the distance. Suddenly, the overwhelming light of Livus' spell faded as quickly as it began; snuffed out instantly. Wasted power in dead air. The Vint's laughter quickly turned into a shriek of agony. He was clutching his hand, his staff once again discarded on the ground. Blood dripped rapidly over the dusty earth, its warm metallic scent overwhelming Bull's heightened senses.

                A bolt was jutting from his wrist - long and sleek, catching the torchlight like a steel beacon.

                Bianca _._

_Varric_.

                Iron Bull had neither the time nor desire to relish the minor victory. He was upon the Tevinter a mere heartbeat later, snarling and furious - the primal urge to kill now fully manifested and screaming for release from its rigid containment.

                Bull's massive hands closed over the Venatori's head, and for the briefest moment all he could see was the fear in those dark eyes, ablaze from between the gaps of his fingers. He slammed Livus back against the wall once again; dragged him up it. But this time, _this time_ , he would not escape. Bleeding heavily from his wound, Livus tried to pry the Qunari's hand from his face with his good hand, scratching and tearing with his fingers as though he could break Bull's thick skin with his bare nails. _Foolish little Vint_.

                Bull snarled, and it was an expression of malignance, pure and visceral, directed straight at the panicking Tevinter. He flailed wildly, his legs kicking out - striking Bull - but the Qunari shrugged off the blows as though they were delivered by a child. Then, just as Livus' heart-rate almost reached the point of no return, the massive warrior smiled, and it was more chilling than anything the Venatori had seen in his life.

                With the tensing of his muscular arms, Bull began to apply pressure.

                _Slowly_.

                _Meticulously._

                _Relishing_ the frantic kicks and muted screams of that bastard Livus as he clawed at his wrists, either too exhausted or too terrified to conjure a spell strong enough to deter the now fully prepared Qunari. He would not be taken by surprise again. Bull could _feel_ the groan of his skull - imagine it splintering and cracking has he crushed it against the cave wall. The screams were now so intense they sounded as though they were made of razors, tearing the man's throat apart from the inside.

                Livus' nose went first, crunching suddenly against Bull's palm as he redoubled his efforts, growling in a mixture of rage and pleasure at the gritty sensation and the watery scream it produced. _Kicks, screams, claws._ The Vint's eyes were practically bulging out of his head, reddening quickly as the vessels burst and bled into the whites with each splintering crack.

                Then, it was as though Livus had suddenly reached his limit. The screaming came to an instant halt as his skull caved in with a wet snap, Bulls palm almost coming into direct contact with the cave wall from the force of the break. The mess of bone and matter that was left no longer resembled a skull yet alone Livus. Bull reeled back, triumphant as the corpse thudded to the ground, his breathing hard and fast, the throbbing in his head almost deafening. That was it. He'd got them. _All those Vint_ _bastards_. He'd torn them to shreds - _he'd_ \--

**"... _Bull_."**

                For a moment, it was as though the world itself had gone silent. All he could hear was a thick rushing sound, but the voice that had spoken rang right through it, clear as a bell on a winter's night. The Qunari turned slowly, his massive frame casting a sweeping shadow in the torchlight, lancing across the cave floor. His gaze was met by a pair of too blue eyes, wet with both relief and the remnants of terror, but still wary. _Afraid_. Not of the Venatori.

                Of _him_?

                No.

                _For_ him.

                The urge to fight - to rip and tear and gut - suddenly flowed out of Bull under the Inquisitor's anxious stare. He was still being held tightly by Dorian, who had yet to turn around and witness the carnage. _Just as well_. Bull felt his heart rate slow from its frantic, wild roar. With a long exhale, he commanded the frenzy to leave him, the churning heat bottled within him rushing out with his breath to disperse in the cold air, metallic and heavy. When he opened his eyes, what was left of his rage was but a mere simmer, replaced instead by a composed expression; safe and stoic. He glanced at his hand; at the mess of crusting red and some other kind of pulp he did not care to examine in close detail. He shook it out to the side, the pieces scattering over the wall. The rest he dealt with by stooping into a crouch, wiping his hands casually on the bottom of Livus' robe, where the encroaching pool of crimson liquid had yet to reach. The last thing he wanted to do was smear that bastard's blood all over the Inquisitor.

                "Boss." Bull's response was delayed but short, devoid of the primal growl that had resonated in it just moments earlier. It was a single word that held many emotions; asked many questions. _Are you alright? It's over now. Is there any pain? Let's get you out of here._

                Varlen smiled weakly, the expression forced but present nonetheless. Dorian, for his part, released the Inquisitor as Bull approached, tentatively lifting his arms back over the elven man's head. The mage made no further attempt to touch him, instead fixing him with a gaze of mingled concern and relief. _Smart_ , Bull thought sadly as Dorian sat back on his heels to give his lover some space. _All things considered, physical contact was probably the last thing that Varlen would--_

                -- Suddenly, Varlen's watery smile wavered, and the elf hung his head, unable to continue his facade as he curled in on himself with a strained groan, his arms tucked in close to his torso. The threat had passed; that fire that coursed through his veins in the heat of battle extinguished. Bull knew it all too well. He could finish a fight with beast-like fury, only to collapse minutes later while he and the Chargers were cracking open a cask of Chasind Mead. Now it seemed Varlen was in the same situation. His injuries had finally caught up with him, and with a vengeance.

                Varric re-joined the group, Bianca sturdy and powerful in his capable hands, his wrists no longer restrained by coarse rope. How he had managed to free himself, Bull didn't know, but he was certainly glad he had, or there might have been two bodies limp upon the cave floor. The dwarf's expression was muted and ashamed - he looked on with a deep guilt in his eyes that Bull knew was undeserved. He _knew_ Varric - even if they disagreed on some things, there was no one more loyal than that hairy-chested dwarf. He did _everything_ he could to get them to Varlen. What happened in the process was not his doing. Putting it to an end _was_.

                 For a moment, the group stood in tense silence, the only sound coming from the Inquisitor's ragged, pained breaths. Then, as though on some unspoken command, the party sprung into action. Varric hastily walked over to the discarded knife, lying alone in the dust near the shredded remains of Varlen's tunic. He held it in his hands and paused, his blue eyes flicking between Varlen and Iron Bull. Dorian was still sitting before the Inquisitor, his hands balled into fists upon his knees. Every now and then, the muscles in his arms twitched, as though desperate to reach out to the shuddering elf, but he forced himself to remain still. Varric cleared his throat.

                "Well, my pick is busted, so I'm not sure how we're going to get _those_ off." The dwarf motioned to the metal cuffs clasped around Bull and Varlen's wrists, and made his way over to Dorian, who was still only bound with rope. The mage presented his hands obediently, and with expert precision, Varric began to slice the bindings. The whole while, Dorian's eyes never left Varlen, and the Inquisitor's never left the floor.

                "... A key?" Varlen murmured, his voice hoarse - sore. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps one of them..."

                Varric nodded with a thoughtful hum, finishing up with Dorian's bindings and beginning his search for a key at the pulped remains of Livus. He moved quickly, as though attempting to mask his concern by constantly busying himself. It did not take him long to gingerly unearth a set of keys from one of Livus' soaked pockets, his nose wrinkling in distaste during the process. Varric was no stranger to blood, but _this_... It was stomach-churning. Quickly distancing himself from the corpse, the dwarf made for the Inquisitor, but Varlen shook his head, finally managing to tear his gaze up from the dirt.

                "... The collar." It was barely a whisper.

                Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but Varric did not attempt to argue, and shot the anxious mage a warning look to do the same. Bull sighed heavily, and a tired smile played across his lips, unseen by his companions. That was just typical of Varlen - even after everything he had endured, his first thought was for _them_. Bull wouldn't say that their Inquisitor was _universally_ selfless, but when it came to his immediate companions, nothing compared. Sometimes, it worried Bull. They were expendable - _he_ was not. If anyone needed to be protected, it was him. Their Inquisitor seems to have a hard time understanding that very simple concept.

                After trying only a couple of the keys, Dorian’s collar clicked open and thudded heavily to the ground, as though it was made of stone rather than leather. _The burden of its purpose_ , Bull mused silently, although he was also grateful it was off. He knew how much being severed from his magic frightened the mage; he'd never outright said it, but it was evident in the tightness of his voice when he talked about the Saarebas. He _always_ placed emphasis on the collars. As it fell away, Dorian's entire being seemed to lift; unfurl as he sat up straighter than before, his body no longer burdened by an unseen force.

Bull fixed Varlen with a stern look when the elf almost turned Varric away again, and the Inquisitor swiftly bit his tongue, instead obediently holding out his hands for the dwarf's inspection. Varric was even faster this time, unlocking the cuffs on the first try. As the metal slid off Varlen's wrists and clattered to the dirt, he brought his arms in close, rubbing the angry red marks that had been left from his struggling. Bull could see the crimson smears on his wrists, swiped across his pale flesh that was swiftly becoming mottled and purple. _He had broken the skin in some parts, and the bruising was already bad,_ Bull noted bitterly as he presented his own wrists to Varric. _And those injuries were nothing compared to what else had been done to him._ Within moments, Bull was also free, his manacles dropping, abandoned to the dirt.

                "Let's find you a shirt, shall we? It's a tad bit icy, for a desert." Dorian gave Varlen one of his usual charming smiles, doing his best to lift the mood while fighting hard to conceal the waver in his voice. It could only go one of two ways. Either the Inquisitor would be grateful for his attempt, or he would retreat into himself, fearing his current condition was nothing more than a burden on his companions. There was a tense pause where Bull waited to see how it would pan out. The Inquisitor was leaning back against the rock now, his arms wrapped around his torso as though trying to hold himself together. Bull's eye began to take swift inventory. Deep, blossoming purple markings marred his ribs - likely fractured, if not completely broken. His wrists were pretty bad - he already knew that much. One of his cheeks now sported a shining bruise, black and stark from where the staff had struck him to the ground, and a cut on his brow occasionally dripped red onto his lap. There were scratches all the way down his chest and stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. _Damn it_ , Bull thought angrily as he tore himself away to search the room for their gear, needing the distraction much like Varric. He supposed it could have been worse, but that was a very meagre consolation. As he passed, he saw Varlen nod slowly, his expression lifting ever so slightly as he gazed at his lover.

                "That... _yes_. Boots too." He agreed, sighing out the words as though he was too tired to dedicate them to a proper breath. He attempted to get to his feet, his lean yet muscular torso catching the torchlight in a way that would normally be breathtaking. However, now it was marred with dirt, blood and bruises, and all it did was stoke the fury that Bull had so skilfully managed to repress. The elf did not get far before he shuddered, crying out with a gasp and falling back against the rock, chest heaving while he flinched in pain with each breath. Dorian could not restrain himself any longer, he reached out, placing a hand carefully on Varlen's shoulder, restraining but not forceful. _Beseeching_. He tried to calm him down, seeing the panic creeping into the elf's eyes as he struggled for air.

                " _Please_ , amatus. You must calm down; you have broken ribs, yes? Be gentle with yourself! You are injured; now is not the time to--"

                "-- Alright, _alright_." The elf gasped after a moment, and Bull could see him focusing hard on controlling his breathing. Eventually, Varlen opened his eyes, and there was a glimmer in them - a brightness that was as shocking as it was relieving.

                "You're... _agh..._ s-starting to sound like my Keeper, you know." Varlen actually chuckled at Dorian's poorly veiled distress, regretting it almost instantly as he winced from the movement. Dorian played along and tutted, eyes warm, reaching over slowly to smooth the Inquisitor's hair from his face. The silver strands were no longer soft, but matted with sweat, dirt and blood. It did not concern the notoriously finicky mage in the least, and there was such tenderness in the gesture that Bull and Varric found themselves looking away out of respect.

                "Sure you don't, uh, have a healing spell tucked away in that robe somewhere, Sparkler?" Varric asked after a moment, now in the process of checking the various passageways, leaning in and listening hard for any potential threats that might have been alerted by the fight. It wasn't exactly a quiet affair, and the lack of response was promising. It seems they really were only a small band of roaming Venatori.

                "Unfortunately I am more proficient with deceased flesh than living, as you are _well aware_." Dorian snapped defensively, briefly tearing his gaze from Varlen to glower in the dwarf's direction. Bull suspected the mage was also displeased at that moment by his lack of knowledge in the art of healing. It must be a different kind of awful to have the means to lessen your lover's pain at your disposal, but not the knowledge to do so. He had little doubt that Dorian would be buried up to his neck in scholarly tomes on the subject upon their return to Skyhold. The Tevinter was fiercely protective of Varlen. He would not fall short again.

                "I had a spare tunic in my pack... if we could find it..." Varlen exhaled the sentence in one slow breath, the picture of sheer, overwhelming exhaustion.

                Bull and Varric took the hint and spread out, uncovering the pack it in barely any time at all. It was discarded in one of the corners along with their gear, hidden beneath a bundle of old cloaks and other spoils from the ruins. Seems the Vints didn't bother to discard anything. They evidentally got _distracted_ from that particular task.

                Varlen dressed quickly, his cheeks going red when he required Dorian's assistance to get his arms through the sleeves, his damaged ribs giving him nothing but white-hot grief. Refusing to make eye-contact with any of his companions, Varlen was eventually dressed, now trembling even more from the small exertion. The way he closed himself off from everyone during the process, even Dorian to a degree, was concerning. Bull had been around; seen a lot of horrible crap. Varlen might be keeping his composure for now, but later on, when he was alone…

                … Ah, _shit_. They’d just have to deal with that when the time came.

                “Come on, we should get out of here in case they have more buddies in the area.” Bull ordered, feeling that _someone_ needed to take charge and none of the others were up to it. “What do you say, Boss?”

                “Yeah. Let’s go.” He agreed, and reached back to use the rock to help haul himself to his feet. However, he was greeted by all of his companions shaking their heads quickly, and Dorian's hand once again finding his shoulder with gentle reproach. Varlen was just as aware as _they_ were that he was in no state to get off the ground, yet alone walk. Yet his pride would not allow him to ask for assistance. Bull walked forward, standing over the elf - not menacingly, but with a definite authority. He stooped to a crouch, his eye trained on the Inquisitor, watching every slight movement of his bruised face.

                "I'm going to carry you, alright Boss? It's probably going to hurt; you're pretty banged up, but I know you can handle it. So brace yourself."

                "I'm fine, Bull. I don't need you to--" he began to argue, but it was Varric who came to the rescue, his eyes soft with concern that halted Varlen's words in their tracks. Varric had that effect on people; that almost paternal patience mingled with genuine worry. It was disarming at the best of times.

                " _Come on_ , Snowy. We know you're not fine, and _that's okay_. You don't have to lie to us. Let's just get out of this shit-hole; the faster the better, right?"

                For a moment, Varlen drew his lower lip between his trembling teeth, as though hearing the truth said aloud by Varric had brought him to the brink of tears. However, he pulled himself together at the last moment, dropping his gaze with a sharp breath. Slowly, he nodded his consent, and Bull wasted no more time. As gently as he could, he wrapped one arm around Varlen's back, hooking under his arms, and the other swept up behind his knees. In one move, Bull stood, lifting the Inquisitor effortlessly, as though we were made of feathers. Bull always knew elves were light, being so lean and small compared to his fellow Qunari. Carrying Varlen was barely more of a burden than carrying his weapon. Hell, his great-axe might even be heavier.

                He glanced down at Varlen, and paused when he saw the elf's face twisted in pain, his eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tight. He was fighting against the impulse to curl in on himself, instead pressing almost desperately against Bull's torso, gasping sharply against his skin. Bull wavered, unsure of how else to hold him to lessen the agony, staying perfectly still for a moment as Varlen struggled to get used to the position.

                "Boss?"

                "It's fine." The words barely managed to escape from between his gritted teeth. He cracked his eyes open, giving Iron Bull a pained yet commanding look. "Let's go."

                The Qunari nodded, and as a group, they began making their way out of the cave. With every step Bull took, he could feel Varlen's breath hitch in his throat, any cry he might have made stifled by his obstinately clenched jaw. They wove their way through the cave's passages - damn it, they were _maddening_. They got lost and looped back more often than not, and Bull struggled not to show his mounting frustration, fighting to maintain a gentle, calm hold on Varlen. Blissfully, the elf had passed out not long after they began their escape, his body suddenly going slack in Bull's arms with a release of pained tension. The Qunari had grinded to a halt, but after determining that he was still breathing at a steady rate, he gave the rest of the group the reassuring nod to continue. Eventually, they exited into the early dawn, the sun just barely peaking over the rolling dunes.

                Bull lead the group, forging a path through the sand with gritted determination to reach the closest camp. Dorian was next, his eyes flicking repeatedly to the unconscious elf cradled by the Qunari, but he restrained himself from reaching out, or demanding an update on his condition every few metres. Varric brought up the rear, Bianca loaded and always at the ready. The dwarf was taking no more chances; he'd turn _anything_ that came within one hundred feet of the Inquisitor into a pin-cushion.

                Bull felt a warmness swell inside his chest, and it was not simply due to the early rays of the sun lancing over the sand. He repositioned Varlen gently; drawing him up and closer. He'd done it many times before; carrying members of the Chargers who had fallen to an enemy's blade. Keeping them warm against him - consciously checking their condition with every step as he carried them to safety. Bull also remembered the times when he had awoken after blacking out to find Krem leaning on his stomach, fast asleep, bandages still hanging limply from his hand after he'd finished patching up his 'big, bloody _idiot_ of a chief'. Bull smiled to himself at the memory.

 

                _Being a leader means being strong for your people, that much is true…_

               

                Bull glanced down again at Varlen; at the now peaceful look on his face as he lingered in blissful unconsciousness, safe from the world in the Qunari's arms. Protected by his companions, who would kill before asking questions just to see him safely home.

 

                _…But sometimes you have to let your people be strong for you, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go - sorry for the length of the chapter, but I figured the finale is allowed to be a little longer than usual! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> I'm considering working on a sequel series, but it probably won't happen for a while so I can really get all my ideas together. It would likely begin back at Skyhold, focusing on the reveal of Varlen's past to his companions, and their journey to bring the people who assaulted him to justice (to help him recover and gain some closure). So essentially another dose of angst, but with moral dilemmas and definitely some tender moments shared with Dorian!


End file.
